


i said kiss me here and here and here (and you did.)

by remuslupin



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood Magic, Bloodplay, Heartbeats, Kissing, M/M, Minor Violence, Pre-Canon, this was so self-indulgent i want to Die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 21:15:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10050308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remuslupin/pseuds/remuslupin
Summary: ❝It's a sign of loyalty,❞ Leo starts quietly, gazing down at the knife with a resolute sort of stare as if it means nothing more to him than the tomes that he studies each day (although the blush that subsequently blooms across his cheeks like roses in spring tells you otherwise), ❝of fealty. Supposedly, our fates will be bound as one after the ceremony.❞❝Milord, I’m… I’m not entirely sure I follow.❞❝The idea is that I draw blood from myself… And you drink it.❞[ based on siegbert's jpn my room lines. ]





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GhostFlowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostFlowers/gifts).



> you = niles.
> 
> ok so this was written for the "blood" day of leoniles week but since i missed it by two months i'll just.... post it as a standalone thing LOL. anyway, this is gifted to my leoniles partner in crime!!!!! love you sm!!!!
> 
> based on siegbert’s aBSOLUTELY FILTHY MY ROOM LINE; “The royal family has their retainer, the one whom they’ve decided upon, drink their blood and swear fealty.” u dirty little boy (jk i’m obviously worse for writing this). thank you to my beautiful beta aisu10, who proofread this even though she has no idea what a fire emblem is.
> 
> title lyrics from "i had a dream about you" by richard siken.

After looking back at it all, you’ve realised that it had been clear from the start that you'd been brought along to Castle Krakenburg as a decoy, in case of a situation in which something happened to go wrong. You were the youngest, the least experienced out of all of the seasoned thugs and ruffians who'd accompanied your band of thieves to the heart of Nohr— the one with the least to lose.

Hindsight had always been a goddamn bitch.

When you had been left behind and caught, however, you'd been expecting (and hoping, really; it was true that you had absolutely nothing to lose) to be executed within the week— not to become Prince Leo’s goddamn retainer.

You _are_ endlessly grateful, however, and now, you suppose it's official. A formal wage has been allocated to you in return for your dedicated service (your new liege will be paying you far less than he'd been initially intending— you’ve never been inclined to take more than what you absolutely need from _anyone_ , after all), a new room has been offered to you and fresh clothes have been placed upon your back; the new wyvern leather eyepatch that had been gifted to you only yesterday by Leo still causes you some discomfort, but it’s most likely due to you being used to the much lighter fabric of a dirtied bandage. All that is left now is for the both of you to undertake the official instatement ceremony.

Leo hadn’t deigned to tell you much about it at all; when you'd asked, he'd simply muttered something along the lines of goblets and privacy in a manner quite unlike his usual dignified demeanour, and though you've always considered yourself much more capable of carrying out dirty work than partaking in some special _ceremony,_ you had decided to let the matter lie for the moment. What you hadn't realised, however, was how soon the ceremony would be, and no less than a week passes after your first inquiry before you find yourself in a small, windowless room that you're fairly sure you have never ventured into, lit only by candles and the faint light that pours in from the doorway and illuminates a select portion of the flooring.

Leo enters only a few minutes after you, and though you immediately look to him in search of an explanation, he offers no such assistance.

The two of you are quiet for a while, or maybe it is only for a moment. “Milord—?” You finally prompt, and Leo folds his hands behind his back before moving to sink into the sole chair in the room (the cushions look so comfortable that you doubt you'd be able to stand up after sitting down on them— hence why you hadn't bothered to in the first place). As if pulled by force, you immediately move to stand before him, and watch on as he slowly moves one hand from the chair’s armrest to… A dagger?

You reflexively flinch away, hand reaching for a bow that isn't there because you _hadn’t been allowed to bring your weapon into the room, dammit._ Your expression seems to convey more than you'd been intending, however— you really _must_ work on keeping your emotions in check— because Leo’s eyes widen upon catching sight of your startled features, and he immediately raises his hands in a show of peace; though one fist is still curled so tightly around the dagger that his knuckles have temporarily been bleached white.

“No, I'm— please, Niles, ease your mind. I’m not going to use it on you. I'm going to use it on myself.”

Wait a moment. “P-Pardon?”

Despite your intentions, your question only causes the silence to resume for a few beats. You catch one more glimpse of the outside view offered from across the hall (the bronze trees of autumn are pushed against the windows, red leaf upon red leaf upon glass) before a guardsman pushes the door closed and envelops the two of you in a state of near-darkness.

“It's a sign of loyalty,” Leo starts quietly, gazing down at the knife with a resolute sort of stare as if it means nothing more to him than the tomes that he studies each day (although the blush that subsequently blooms across his cheeks like roses in spring tells you otherwise), “of fealty. Supposedly, our fates will be bound as one after the ceremony.”  

“Milord, I’m… I’m not entirely sure I follow.”

“The idea is that I draw blood from myself… And you drink it.”

He’s quick to begin raising the weapon after letting the tail-end of the statement rest uncomfortably in the air for a moment, but you’re faster.

“No. Let me.”

Your words are as gentle as the grasp that you use to pull the knife from Leo’s hand. You know how to make it almost painless— how to draw blood without causing your liege to lose too much of it.

You bow your head slightly upon kneeling before him on one knee, and take the hand that he offers out to you without another word.

If he feels pain as the knife slices across his wrist, his expression does not convey it. Rather, his bottom lip minutely quirks downwards for a moment before he’s tilting his head to stare at the neat incision with an almost medical kind of interest. “One cut. That's all it would have taken for you to kill me,” he notes after a beat of silence— the fact is pointed out with more of an observant tone rather than accusatory, however.

Though you quickly busy yourself with temporarily stanching the blood flow by lifting the end of your cape and winding it around his wrist, you still possess an acute awareness of his pulse point throbbing steadily underneath your grasp, and are vaguely reminded of his horse’s hoofbeats, thrumming constantly by your side whenever the two of you venture outside of the castle together. It’s arguably just as persistent in strength, too, and the thought prompts you to swallow heavily. “Naturally. Alas, I don’t believe that the task of assassinating you was in my contract.” Anyone else, however— on Leo’s orders, of course….

The knowledge that you could have easily murdered him hangs palpably between the two of you— Leo’s death would in turn mean that you would no longer have a life debt to return, nor a castle’s confines to stay trapped inside of.

Really, though; where could you have gone? Back to the criminals who left you for dead in the first place? Hardly. The question still remains, however— “If you were aware of the danger, why did you allow me to do it?”

With a faint tilt of his head, you are suddenly faced with the sight of Leo smiling tenuously down at you. “Because I trust you.”

The sentiment causes _something_ odd beneath your collarbone to unfurl and pang insistently against your ribcage and it almost makes you wonder if you have a heart after all— but before long, you carefully tuck the thought away for later because right now, the only thing that you can (and should) focus on is the first of your duties as a retainer to Nohr’s youngest prince.

All of a sudden, you feel guilty at having been so quick to assume the worst of him, and your head lowers regretfully once more. “All I will ask from now on is for you to place your trust in me so that I may protect you, milord. Beyond that, you may deal with me as you wish.” If that means that Leo will one day go on to wield the weapon that kills you, then so be it. You owe your liege much more than your life by now.

You don’t pause long enough for him to make any move to reply before you are leaning down and allowing your lips to hover over the centre of his palm. They linger there for a moment or so, and you allow yourself to revel in the hushed silence that follows before finally pulling his arm further towards you and moving your lips close enough to momentarily brush over his bloodied wrist, exposed once more after you’d pulled your cape away from the wound with a single, insistent tug of the loose knot.

“I think the tradition usually calls for you to drink it out of a goblet…” Leo starts, but his words don't convey as much as his expression— his pupils are dilated, and his gaze looks almost _hungry_ as he watches you tenderly ghost your lips over his injury. When you glance up, blood that is not your own (yet in this moment, belongs to you) is streaked delicately across your skin like smeared lipstick on a woman’s mouth, and you can clearly see Leo’s throat bob as he swallows heavily at the sight.

You've barely known him for a month, but the reply falls easily from your lips nevertheless. “Since when have you ever been one to call for tradition, milord?” The question is asked in an almost playful fashion, and the mood is temporarily broken when a brief smile is passed between the two of you like a litany meant only for your eyes, until a reverent hush finally falls over the two of you once more.

When you finally move to lower your lips to Leo’s wrist, his fingers twitch in your grasp, and the mere fact that you can _feel_ the tendons move underneath his skin when your mouth finally meets with the wound encourages you to wind both of your hands around his outstretched arm as if your life absolutely _depends_ on it.

The first intake of blood feels unnaturally warm as it trickles down your throat in a steady stream, and you find yourself pulling back and gagging on instinct. The taste somehow feels both unnatural and as familiar as an old friend— you’ve tasted blood (usually that of your own) many times, have relished the look of complete disgust as opponents have watched you flash a crimson smile towards them… But never have you _swallowed_ it before, and certainly not such a sizeable intake.

Blood is a _warning_ to most people and it most certainly tastes like one, but when you feel a gentle hand card through your hair as if in encouragement, something in your chest spurs you on and sends you surging back to his wrist, running your tongue over the thick liquid and drinking it as easily as if it had been wine.

The pounding of your heart in your ears alerts you to the fact that the constant throbbing of his pulse beneath your lips is surging in unison with your own, and you vaguely find yourself beginning to wonder if this truly is unifying you both; it’s almost as if you're in a church hall, after all— every movement is sacred, every sharp intake of breath between the two of you is hallowed. You don’t plan on drinking much (blood isn’t exactly the healthiest beverage to ingest, and you are well aware of this), but Leo’s hand in your hair and the sound of his breathy exhales, nearly synchronised with the beating of both of your hearts, awakens an admittedly strong temptation in your chest that quietly urges you to simply go on forever.

“Niles…” Though Leo’s voice meets with your ears rather pleasantly, you’re quick to break out of the hazy spell and glance upwards, ready to halt if something is wrong, but you are only met with the sight of your liege, cheeks appearing unnaturally coloured. He’s _blushing,_ and you respond to this revelation with a quiet hum as your gaze turns into one of pure satisfaction— you aren’t necessarily enjoying the taste, but you take comfort in the knowledge that Leo looks suitably flustered (and Gods, you’d give absolutely anything to be just an inch or so closer, to reach out and discover for yourself whether those darkened cheeks are as soft as they look, but you know your status in comparison to that of your new liege’s, and hence, refrain).

This continues for a stretch of time— whether it goes on for seconds, minutes, or even hours, you cannot be sure; time does not stop, but seems to loop instead, and catches the two of you in a temporary pocket of infinity as you carry out the ritual.

There soon comes a moment in which your teeth drag across his skin, and Leo inhales sharply. The concise motion of his fingers curling into your hair even more tightly prompts you to hum apologetically in response, and you take the gentle admonition as a signal that you should perhaps think about pulling away soon— your stomach is already beginning to twist in silent protest against the toxic liquid trickling down your throat.

A little poison never harmed anyone, however, and you don’t let the taste spoil the remainder of your fun as you finally pull away from Leo’s wrist and place fleeting, resolute kisses upon each of his knuckles with your bloodied mouth. When you have been satisfied, you lift your head, and languidly slide the back of your hand across your mouth.

The Prince parts his lips as the two of you come face to face once more, fingertips curling into a fist before relaxing in your gentle hold. As if purely on instinct, he leans in towards you until the feather-white hair that covers your forehead is almost brushing against his, and reaches up with his free hand to wipe what must be a stray smear of blood from the corner of your mouth. When he has finished raising his thumb to his own lips and licking away the crimson stain (and you'll freely admit that this certain action causes you to swallow heavily), he recites what must be the concluding words of the ritual: “Additi duo corda unum.”

“Gods,” you sigh, tightening the grasp that your dark, scarred hand has on Leo’s pale wrist before moving forward to completely lean your forehead against his, “I love it when you talk dirty to me.”

**Author's Note:**

> additi duo corda unum - “let two hearts be joined as one.” thx google translate.
> 
> kudos/reviews are much appreciated!


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